Warehouses and Back Catalogues
by Charity Angel
Summary: In which Tosh discovers another secret organisation, and some of Jack's back catalogue. Torchwood fans, don't panic - you don't exactly need an in-depth knowledge of Warehouse 13 to get by. [Standalone]


_A/N: If you're worried, all you need to know about Warehouse 13 is that Wolcott was played by Gareth David-Lloyd. Anything else is explained in the story._

**Warehouses and Back Catalogues**

Tosh blinked, took her glasses off, rubbed her eyes and looked again. The image had not altered.

"Jack?"

Jack looked up gratefully from the pile of paperwork he was sorting through on the sofa. "You okay, Tosh?"

"What do you know about something called 'The Warehouse'?" Tosh asked him. "There's a mention of it in the Victorian archives, but I don't think I've heard of it before."

Jack got up and stretched. "They're a bit like us," Jack said. "Only they deal in terrestrial objects that cause weirdness, rather than extra-terrestrial. They moved the warehouse itself to the States around the start of the Great War, I think."

Tosh frowned at him. "Terrestrial objects?"

Jack waved his hands expansively. "It's a bit like the ghost machine, showing us echoes of intense emotion: some objects can become imbued with the emotions around them, and subsequently affect other people."

Tosh realised that five years ago, she would have said that was complete rubbish. Having worked for Torchwood, she had learned to accept that just about anything was possible. Including:

"Did you ever work with anyone from the Warehouse?"

Jack grinned and sidled over. "Yeah, once or twice. You would have loved Helena Wells: she had such a brilliant mind. Great body, too. And, oh, her partn…"

He caught sight of picture in her hand. The scanner was open: Tosh was clearly intending to add the photo to their digital archives, one of many documents in the dusty old archive box sat on her desk. He snatched the century-old photograph from her and ran his fingers over the man it depicted.

"I thought there was something familiar about him," Jack mused. "It's amazing how blurry your memory can get over a century."

"Is he an ancestor?"

Jack shrugged. "Probably." He closed his eyes and tried to remember back, to think about the man's voice.

"He had a bit of an accent," Jack said eventually. "He tried hard to hide it, so it wasn't as gorgeous as Ianto's. I wonder if he came back to Wales when the Warehouse relocated. Or even when Helena disappeared, never did find out what happened to her. The books kept getting published, but she dropped off the face of the Earth."

Tosh was looking at the back of the photo, which was inscribed in beautiful, copperplate handwriting: 'Miss H.G. Wells and Mr . Wolcott, Warehouse 12. 19th August 1894.' She spared a moment to be amused by the correctly-used Welsh diphthong initial before her brain caught up.

"H.G. Wells was a woman?"

"Oh yeah," Jack said, with a far-away look in his eyes and a roguish little smile. Tosh knew the expression well: he was thinking about a long-lost lover.

"And him?" She tapped the photo.

"David?" Jack had the decency to look sheepish. "I guess with my back catalogue, there was always a chance of having slept with either an ancestor or a descendent of someone I know now."

She raised her eyebrows, a pale imitation of Ianto's best weapon. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell me what?" Ianto's nose was still in the file he had brought up with him. "Jack, is your paperwork done? And by 'done', I mean sorted out properly, not just screwed up and thrown at Myfanwy in the vague hope she'll turn into a dragon and incinerate it."

Tosh couldn't help herself, she giggled.

"Um." Jack shuffled his feet, then, chastised, sullenly made his way back to the sofa. Tosh plucked the photo from him.

"What have you got there?" Ianto asked, his attention now on her.

"It's just an old photo from the Archives," she said, hoping he wouldn't look.

He did, and smiled. "That's my great, great-grandfather," he said. "It's one of those family legends that he worked for a secret organisation in London. I wondered if it was Torchwood when I got the job there."

"Warehouse Twelve," Jack called over.

Ianto flipped the photo over. "Still, it means my exciting ancestor was actually exciting," he said, still smiling. "Jack, this is your writing."

His eyes narrowed suddenly. "And you've mentioned Helena Wells before. I _really_ don't want to know what Tosh was asking about, do I?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. Ianto handed the picture back carefully and swept out, the very picture of pissed-off butler.

"Jack…"

Jack shook his head. "Let him stew for a bit," he said, grinning inanely. "He'll be all angry and possessive later on."

"Jack!"

"I'll make sure you get the CCTV."


End file.
